I am a new mom, laying on the bed in my one-bedroom apartment in Waikiki, sunlight and traffic sounds streaming in, marveling at my baby’s beautiful hair - the brown curls that strangers stop me in the street to comment on - and thinking about how much I love them. I think a part of the reason I love them is because they come from me. This is not his father’s hair, but my hair. People always say that he looks like a mini version of his father, but I know I am in there too, and sometimes I want to scream at them, “He’s mine, too!” His father’s family attributes everything in him to a relative of theirs. His long, graceful fingers come from a great- uncle somewhere.